?S 3531 
.A697 ?3 
1921 



Pastels and 
Silhouettes 



MABLE HOLMES PARSONS 




Class 
Book. 



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COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



PASTELS 

AND 

SILHOUETTES 

A Book of Verse 

BY 

MABLE HOLMES PARSONS 

n 

Illustrations by Phyllis Muirden 




1921 
THE STRATFORD COMPANY 

PUBLISHEnS 

BOSTON, MASS 



f^^! 









Copyright 1921 

The STRATFORD CO., Publishers 

Boston, Mass. 



The Alpine Press, Boston, Mass., U. S. A. 



JUL 1871 

©G!.Ael7713 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

We beg to thank Poet Lore, Munsey's 
and The Spectator for their kind per- 
mission to reprint in this volume certain 
poems which first appeared in their 
pages. 



Preface 

THOUGH haltingly and imperfectly be- 
spoken in the lines, a certain faith has lent 
to the verses such color and movement as they 
possess. Resting upon that faith, the versifier 
has sought to re-convey what have been felt to 
be the rhythms of nature, — the impersonal light- 
ness of greeting things, the buoyant fullness of 
motion in sea and ships, the redundant urge and 
crowding of humanity in cities, the slow-pulsed, 
reluctant charm of days-between ; to subdue ex- 
pression to that of the analogy itself, arrogat- 
ing no rights of pre-considered form ; in short, 
as nearly as possible to grant to each mood or 
emotion its peculiar image and rhythmic direc- 
tion. Moreover, part of the author's belief has 
been concerned with the perceptions that lie 
betAveen illusion and disillusion: she has not 
looked toward the realm where "fatuous fires 
and meteors take their birth," nor yet to dis- 
couraged regions of denial, but rather to that 
swift current with its inevitable impulses and 
reverses wherein life actually maintains and 



renews itself. From this angle or view she has 
more or less consciously proceeded, in the sin- 
cere persuasion that if there be aught for the 
artificer of words to celebrate, it must be found 
in the seldom confessed or praised What Is, 
rather than in What Should or What — more 
comfortably — Might Be. "The drawing will 
not be adequate, but I must continue to draw 
because of my belief in that perfect bridge we 
shall never build." 

M. H. P. 



To My Husband 



CONTENTS 

Late Spring 1 

June 2 

One Day in May 3 

My Dear of All My Happy Spring . . 4 

Days Between 5 

Tomorrow ....... 6 

Matins 7 

Bells of the Morning 9 

Mute ........ 11 

Summer 12 

Autumn 13 

The Rose and You 15 

The Star 16 

Pitiful 17 

Let Me Be Grateful 18 

Pilgrims 20 

Little Gray Mole 21 

On the Mountains 22 

Tapers 23 

Youth 24 



CONTENTS 



Winter Sketches . 

Fir Tree 

Mist .... 

Two Small Wings of Prayer 

Question 

Horizons 

The Sunshine on the Hills 

A Lover to His Lady 

My Neighbor 

If— . 

Beside the Road 

Two Paths . 

Alas, Poor Folly 

Song of the Winds 

Ships from the Sea 

Mother . 

Weary . 

Afterwards . 

L 'Art Absorbe 

Wounded 

Goodbye After Furlough 

A Prayer 

With the Dawn , 



25 

28 
29 
30 
31 
33 
34 
36 
37 
38 
39 
41 
42 
43 
45 
47 
49 
50 
51 
52 
54 
56 
58 



CONTENTS 



Little Old Man . 

A Japanese Garden 

To Roswell Dosch 

Individualism 

Waiting 

The Coast Speaks 

The Fantasy of Life 

Soul 's Pilgrimage 

Process 

Recalled 

Recessional . 



60 
62 
66 

67 
69 
71 
73 

79 

84 
85 
87 



Late Spring 

WHEN late is spring, 
Then do not sing 
The birds ; their notes 
Within their throats 
Are held. And joy, 
A pale alloy. 
Turns slow to pain. 

When late is spring, 
Each budding thing 
Is chilled ; the flower 
Within her bower, 
Alas, too late 
Awaits her mate — 
Death, again. . . . 



[I] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



June 

SIGH in the air, 
Kiss in the sun, 
Life and mystery, blended, one. 
Rapture of birth. 
Heaven, no dearth. . . . 
Vanish, care ! 

Bird on the bough, 

Bud in the green, 

Every conceivable wonder is seen. 

Over the earth. 

Magic, mirth. . . . 

Love, now. 



[2] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



One Day in May 

IT was one blithesome day in midmost May, 
We sought onr destined courses to discern 
In every bravely tinted bud or spray, 

In dandelion, violet, or fern. 
We deepened to the calling of the earth ; 

We laughed in pure, inconsequential joy 
The while our love was horning in our mirth ; 

We breathed, intent, lest one poor word des- 
troy 
The rapture brooding o'er the river's bank 

And rising from our throats in tender song. 
Deep, deep, of all the mystery we drank. — 

It was a fair and wondrous day, and long, — 
Long in memory. — You went away. 
I've never known another day in May. 



[3j 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



My Dear of All My Happy Spring 

I NEVER dreamed that I should grow so bold. 
Dear, my dear of all my happy spring, 
That I could 'mind you of the violets, — cold 
Are they, — and larks that do not pause to 
sing. 

A blossom blossoms only for the heart ; 

A bird 's a bird, while hands together cling ; 
But all the petals flutter far apart, 

And all the birds take flight on startled wing, 

When we from out our green wood mutely go 

And drift unto the colder paths of men. 
When lovers part, bird notes are faint and slow ; 
Flowers droop and dry. — My dear, ah then, 

If in the dark my thrilling hands you'll find, 
Hark, the wild sweet choral on the wind. 



[4] 



^ PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Days Between 

SNOW in sodden patches on the ground, 
The slow drip-dropping of the eaves, 
Faint gossiping where rivulets be found, 
The prick of buds aspiring to be leaves. 

A wee bird winking in the willow tree 
Like some alert and wise and wary eye ; 

A hint of lightest laughter passing me, 
A clean and breathing balminess of sky. 

Why curb thy gladness till the glam'rous days 
Of May and May's free spilth of gold and 
green? 
These be the days of earth's most dear amaze 
That death's a dreaming, life and life be- 
tween. 



[5] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Tomorrow 

TODAY the swallows dipped beneath the 
eaves, 
Blithe re-embodied spirits of the spring, 
And oh, their coming all my pain relieves 
And coaxes e 'en my tightened lips to sing. 

Upon their choiring wings and in their quest 
They tender me the hope I 'd all but lost, 

And nestle to my need, and bring to rest 

The straining fears wherewith my soul was 
tossed. 

And now I know tomorrow I shall hear 
A singing bird, — how like to thee 'twill be ; 

And soon, in God's good time, shall buds appear 
And daffodils and nests within my tree. 



[6] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Matins 

MARK not too keenly on the city street 
That greetings oft be feelingless and fleet ; 
Come, follow me, where chill thoughts be denied, 
Along a road that rims the wide hill side, 
And whence, from out some eerie, you and I 
May catch the first rose ribbands of the sky 
When Morning mounts, and mounting, turns to 

look 
Upon the sleeping valley, waiting firs and brook. 



Ah, with her glancing eye she'll find us there 
Adoring her, enraptured as the air 
That breathes her kiss and whispers its delight 
Unto the last dim door-ways of the night. 
And there a-quiver in the valley's shell, — 
Lean forward, friend, and look you well 
Upon a miracle of fog and fire, 
Filmed inward fire, an opal of desire. 



[7] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

Mid veiling filigrees of silver spume, 

It Day allures, until Day shall consume 

Its heart, and toss unto the thirsting sky 

A foaming nectar brimming noon-tide high. 

Oh, tarry not upon the city street 

Where greetings oft be feelingless and fleet; 

Come you with me, when Night has all but gone, 

Along a wind-sweet trail into the Dawn. 



[8] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Bells of the Morning 

OVER the mountains, 
Out of the sky, 
Bells of the morning. 
Floating by. 

Wake and a-wing. Bird, 

Joy has begun, 
Joy of the valley, 

Joy of the sun. 

Riding the ribbons 
Aurora has spread, 

Carol the day-bells, 
High overhead. 

Night was a-weary. 
Day-time is strong ; 

Night was a dreaming. 
Day is a song, — 

[9] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

A song for the sower 

And for him who reaps; 

A song to summon 
The heart that weeps; 

A song to open 

The eyes, and hark ! 
Mounting the zenith, 

Thrilling the dark, 

Over the mountains, 

Out of the sky. 
Bells of the morning. 

Floating by. 



fio] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Mute 

WHEN fleet Apollo wooed the first shy 
morn, 
Spurning the garment of her maiden mist ; 
When sense and soul and love, in one, were 
born. 
And everywhere bright bees and blossoms 
kissed ; 
When passion cooled, at dew-time, 'neath a 
cloud 
Wide flung upon pure pinnacles of air. 
And earth's high heart, restrained and rever- 
ence-bowed, 
Gave voice to lifted orisons and prayer; 
Ah, then, I know, a singer, stripped and white 
As ravished Dawn, uprose, and clear and long 
Did thrill the hushed and tender, trembling 
Night, 
Up to the very listening stars, with song. 
So might I sing, were I beyond the ken 
And call and smile of all life's little men. 



[II] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Summer 

SUMMER, 
Rapture full, 
Doth contemplate 
No cooling Fall, 
Of wooing, satiate. 

Summer, — 

With drowsing eyes 

And lessening thrill 

Beneath the burning of the skies,- 

Is yet more deeply stirred 

"With pride. 

As she sees 

A host of glowing blossoms 

At her knees. 

Summer 

Doth contemplate 

No barrenness ; 

No chilling irony of fate. 

Mother-proud, 

She knows herself to be 

Heaven-endowed. . . 

[12] 



'/— 



iTJfl 




0. / 'X'>' ^ Ak 











PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Autumn 

FALLEN leaves of rose and gold 
Defy the creeping death of Winter's cold 
And wrap the shrinking earth 
In garments gay and warm 
That apprehend no dearth of life. 

Fallen leaves, turned brown and sere, 

Dead pall become upon the dying year. — 

They will not greet the Spring 

In lifted sap, with trees that sing 

A glad rebirth. 

And hark! 

A whispered ghost of plaint 

Along the dry lips of the leaves 

That died,— 

Brave offspring of the parent trees, — 

And gave their life, 

A sacrifice. 

Not knowing, in their first joyous showing. 

That they would die; 

Nor asking why 

[13] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

They alone should have no part 

Within the deep and bounding heart 

Of reerudescent earth. 

And far aloft, 

Sun-lover, 

Forgetting them, 

Has kissed the parent stem, 

And unto it accrue 

The leaf buds new. 

But hark! 

The whispered ghost of plaint 
Along the dead lips of the leaves, — 
Last year's offspring of the trees, — 
That died, not knowing. 



[14] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



The Rose and You 

THIS room, my world, and yonder red rose, 
you: 
Its ripened tint, a rapture to mine eyes ; 
Its scent — the ardent want within me tries 
To compass and to claim, as I do you. 

Its presence as a bud brought hope of bliss 
And love's most sacred office of sweet care 
From me it won; I longed, but ne'er did dare 
To shock its dew-chaste soul by e'en one kiss. 

But when in tender beauty forth it flamed, 
I plucked and pressed it to my eager breast. 
It dropped a leaf, a tear ; I bade it rest ; 
From joy too burning I myself reclaimed. 

That rose ? I love it in its prime, dear, 
And thank the gods who bring me such delight ; 
I '11 love it, too, when fades it ' fore my sight, — 
But when it dies, ah dies, my world how drear ! 



[15] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



The Star 



A 



CLIFF of jet, 
A lonely pine, 
A star ! 
But ah, the tree's sad undertone, 
An echo of the sea's low moan, — 
A rushing cadence, then a dying, 
A sobbing ending in a sighing, — 
And yet, and yet. 
Above the pine, 
The star! 
Above the soughing and the fret, 
Above the sombre silhouette, 
The star. 
The goal afar ! 



[i6] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Pitiful 

MIDNIGHT. 
Rain. 
Blurred lights. 
Night is chill. 
In the street, many feet 
Rush for cars. 
In the swirl 
Tiny girl 
' ' Extra ' ' cries. 
Pitiful. . . 

In the street, many feet 
Rush for cars. 



[^7] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Let Me Be Grateful 

LET me be grateful. . . 
Like sunshine upon rain, 
Let me be grateful 
Even for the pain. 

Relenting promise of the skies, 
May my gratitude arise, 

A radiant span, 
From now unto that distant day, 
April or May, 

When life began. 

Let me be grateful. 

Let me forget the soil 

Turned daily upward 

As my meed of toil; 

Let me forget, but once. 

The need to give : 

From thee, thrice blessed is the hour 

When I receive. 

[i8] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

Like the clear stars, 

Let me reflect the light 

Of day, at night, 

And know my Sun is yet the god 

And giver to the darkened sod. 

Let me but know myself the star 

Of thee, my Day, 

And I shall never mourn if far 

And lone, I stray. 

Let me be grateful. 
Like sunshine upon rain, 
Let me be grateful, 
Even for the pain. 



[19] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Pilgrims 

WAVES that kiss and nod and pass, 
Breezes o 'er the tall sweet grass, 
Fleeting, fleeting. 
Swift gray birds that call "Good morrow," 
Laughter daily learned of sorrow. 
You and I who smile and go 
With the dew-time and the snow. 
Greeting, greeting. 



[20] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Little Gray Mole 

LITTLE gray mole, 
Under my hill, 
Wh}^ don't you come out 
Into the light 
And recover your eyes? 
But then, I suppose. 
If you prefer to live under ground, 
And if you cannot tell 
Darkness from light. 
We should not blame you 
For not knowing 
You have great need of eyes. 



[21] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



On the Mountains 

WE live on the mountains, 
Clouds and I. 
I like mountains, 
For there I may run 
With bare feet 
And a single free garment, 
In the wind. 

I live in a small warm house. 
The clouds live under the sky. 
I am always meeting them, 
At my door, 
When I run out to play. 
They are always meeting me 
When they try to run in. 
They are jealous of me 
For having so snug a house. 
I am jealous of them 
For having a roof so high. 



[22] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Tapers 

THE trees are tapers, 
The grasses green flames, 
And petals are pointed 
In glowing acclaims. 

The mountains are burning, 
Yet higher and higher. 

And even the dew 
Is a tremulous fire. 

The earth is an altar, 
Peek, tree-top, and sod, 

A-light with the multiple 
Glory of God. 



[23] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Youth 

THE sun's path is a red path 
On the sea. . . 
Westward, I turn my prow. 
Strong at my oars I sit, 
Singing. . . 

I think I '11 reach the ruby 
Ere it sinks. . . 



[24] 



PASTELvS AND SILHOUETTES 



Winter Sketches 
1 

LIMNED with rose, the snow hills lie 
Along an ever-widening sky. 
A mist of frost o'er-hangs the trees 
That stiffen, stark, upon the knees 
Of rock, drawn up in pain and cold 
Beneath the soil. And ridges bold 
Cast shadows chill in valleys deep, 
Where stricken rivers crack and creep. 

2 

Three Fates 

WITH arms 
Borne down by snow, 
The crested winter firs 
Stand still and close, and wait 
Relief. 

The oaks. 

With stoic boughs, 

Bear winter's weight 

And tensely lift defiant arms 

Aloft. 

[25] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

A stump, 

Of arms deprived, 

Neath pallid cap and peak, 

Deep hides its frosted, shrinking roots 

And prays. . . . 

3 
My Winter Garden 

I DREAD to hear the snow-wind creep 
Upon my garden, locked in sleep ; 
I dread the sudden crisp lament 
From stalk on stalk, as cold and bent 
My rose trees murmur in the chill 
That grips the valley and the hill. 

I dread the creaking paths that rise. 
Full slow, to meet the sodden skies 
Whence soon the snow will wanly fall 
And be my garden's restless pall. 
But most of all, I dread the night 
That hides the sorry world from sight. 

For in the night, without restraint, 
My frosted garden makes complaint : 
Each tAvisted tree contrives to be 
A vocal torment unto me ; 
And if there be a stir of grass — 
The souls of my dead garden pass. 
[26] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

4 

Snowflakes fall o 'er the roof of my house, 
Seeking my window, they fly, 

Balance, totter, flutter, and fall. 
And yonder, alighting, they die. 

Snowflakes, snowflakes, delicate, white, 
What, I pray you, your gain — 

To be pure, to be light, to be chillingly fine. 
If at last you dissolve into rain? 



m 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Fir Tree 

FIR tree, outside my window, 
We have lived many days 
Side by side. 

We have grown to need each other. 
Often you look in and nod. 
And I send you smiles, 
From my heart. 

This morning, when I looked out. 

Everywhere was snow. . . 

Upon my roof lay your heavy hand. 

Shuddering, 

You lifted two brave free fingers 

To let me see you knew — 

I realized. 



m 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Mist 

IT is not night that covers me, 
But mist, perpetual promise of the morn, 
That lifts not, but swirls. 
Penetrating, chill, 
From cliff to cliff; 
Rolling, spuming. 
Drenching, infiltrating, 
Through the valley where I dwell. 

Opaque, 

Befouled with smoke, 
It rolls. — 
Children and souls 
Are sick for dawn. 
They cry and pray, 
And then • — are still. 

There is no dawn, 
Rose-strewn and warm. — 
Vague half lights on the road to day, 
Blurred and wet with tears 
That cling, 

Alone remain, the record of the years. 
It is not night that covers me, 
But mist, perpetual promise of the dawn. 
[29] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Two Small Wings of Prayer 

1HAVE a locket tendrilled with pale gold, — 
Within a dusk Italian mart 'twas sold, 
Where peered a frowning, ancient man, and 

mark! 
His sunken eyes yet burned, though dim and 

dark. ■ — 
An ebon heart the locket old doth wear. 
Exposed to view, between two wings of prayer. 

He knew, I feel he knew, that ancient man, 
The cupping sorrow of my life 's due span ; 
Believe he, prescient, saw the treasured face 
I later hid within the jealous space; 
Believe his curious eyes did see 
The tendrils twining hungrily toward me. 

Pale and ever paler with the cold 

Of my wrought life, the changeful, curling 

gold; 
And ever deeper, deeper-strangely set. 
The midnight heart of mirthless, misting 

jet. . . . 
And all the day and all the night I bear 
The irony of two small wings of prayer. 
[30] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Question 

WHY may we never sing 
Our bitterness? 
Is life but Spring? 
Out of pain, 

The rainbows in the sky; 
Out of pain, 

The red, red roses 
That may never die. 

Why may we never sing 

Of death ? 
Who paints the lily and the hills? 
Why thrills 

The upward wing of bird. 

The wood anemone, 

The white-crowned chorister 

Who nightly fills my westward fir 

With song? 
Know you the grateful sense 
Of life that lasts not long? 

[31] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

We must have wept — 

Else life is but a tinkle and a spray, 

Not melody, or sea that seeks 

To make of ebb a grander surge 

Towards stars. 
And out beyond the darkened edge of world, 

Toward day. . . . 



[32] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Horizons 

THERE are clouds and peeping rain, 
And shadows penetrate 
Like breath of slow wolf's-bane, 
Or messengers of Fate. 

And I am quite alone, 

All roofed and walled around; 
Nor sing I, nor do moan ; 

Of rain — unceasing sound. 

But I've window and I've tree, — 
A square space filled and trimmed 

With green, green as can be, 
To misting blue depths dimmed. 

And in that tree there dwells 

A bird, unseen as I, 
Whose gem-like rapture swells 

In song, wide as the sky. 



[33] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



The Sunshine on the Hills 

I WOULD not lose the sunshine from the 
hills. — 
Why tell a tale of slow, relentless mills 
Of gods who grind against the grist of fate? 
They tell who spice their prophesies with hate ; 
They crowd the thoroughfares and shout and 

jeer, 
While women cower in their shawls with fear, 
And men grow pale and grim and fiercely set. 
I heard the bitter words they said, and yet. 
My stained, misshapen hands I would forget; 
Forget the ways that thwarted passion wills, 
And turn unto the sunshine on the hills. 

I labor mid the belching, sultry mills, 
Where dragging toil its daily portion kills 
Of my young need of keen, uncoarsened joy; 
I know the blurring belts and heat destroy 
The songs I 'd sing ; yet still I would believe 
That weary body may in soul retrieve. 
I still would smell the roses by my door ; 



[34] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

The notes of early-winging lark that pour 
As from a silver flute, I'd hear; and more — 
Forget I labor mid the blinding mills, 
And find the sunshine on the westward hills. 

I hear the tune-full bee who gay distills 

His sweets the while he works, and faintly 

thrills 
And wakes my heart ; yet at my outer gate 
There grows the flaming bush of crimson hate ; 
And crowding neighbor women beckon me 
My poverty and wretchedness to see. 
And when the Richest Woman courses by, 
They raise their clamor to a shrilling cry 
That shames and tortures me. And I should 

die, 
Did I not know that out beyond the mills, 
The sun still shines upon the westward hills. 



[35] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



A Lover to His Lady 

I'D like to garner all the stars for you 
And set them in an amber-rose-red crown. 
I 'd have you wear it all the long night thi-ough, 

And never bend your queenly head a-down. 
I'd ask of you but that you'd shine for me; 

I'd be a rug of blossoms to your feet, 
And if you'd tread on me, then bright and free 
My blood should run to meet you and to 
greet. 
Ah never, never, be my less than queen. 

Your star-crowned forehead warming to the 
skies ; 
For if you gracious to your subject lean, 

I ne'er can leash the yearning in my eyes. 
Unless you'd give me all yourself to love. 
Then keep your kinship with the skies above. 



[36] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



My Neighbor 

HE does not mind the rules. He sins 
Aloud; for with full-foul tirade 
He curses nature, when the work begins 
Of plough and seed, of horse and spade. 

I dare not listen as he sows : 

I'd be polluted as the air; 

And yet his garden greens and grows 

Grows tall and grateful — like a prayer. 



U7} 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



If — 

IF I might be noticed and found sweet, 
Gone the bitter heart beat 
Of tasteless nights. 

If you'd never turn your eyes away, 
Filled my days eternally. 
With dear delights. 



[38] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Beside the Road 

BESIDE the road I sit and watch 
The people going by, 
And all the folk they look at me 

And seem to wonder why 
I do not nod, I do not smile. 
Nor utter any cry. 

Within my reach I gather stones 

And fling them far away 
From underneath the crowding feet 

That neither pause nor stay. . . . 
I make my feeble throw, and then — 

I bend my head and pray: 

"O Master, ease the burning pain 

That only Thou dost see ; 
My weary body break and bruise, 

But let my soul go free. 
Oh, I would even lay me down 

Where all might tread on me ! ' ' 

[39] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

And those that pass, they speculate 
And "Dreamer" do they cry, 

And beckon me to join with them, 
Nor ever guessing why 

I sit beside the road and watch 
The people going by. 



[40] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Two Paths 

LIKE a jeweled carpet 
Is the pathway to the sun, 
And along the floor there run 
Children, with tiny hands outspread, 
Dancing children, with ruffled petticoats 
And pretty nods and smiles. . . . 
See, yonder, their sparkling tresses tossing 

gaily 
Above the shining floor of the morning sea. 

Like a snowy mane, 

A long, quivering, frosted mane, 

Is the moon's pathway, 

And along its light to a dark boundary 

Creep the very old. 

Who as a last resort — 

When eyes had grown too faint to bear the 

sun — 
Have gone out of safe paths with quaint rose 

borders. 
Out on the waters of night, 
Seeking stars. . . . 

[41] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Alas, Poor Folly 

FLEETING is Folly, never bird so fleet : 
However much his lordship may be 
wooed. 
However much his solace you entreat. 

You wake to find that quite in vain you sooed. 

Cruel is Folly : however keen the goad 

And lash of life, and deep your need of 
laughter. 
Folly's away; and greater is the load 

You're left to bear; for Doubt slips in there- 
after. 

Deceitful Folly, though feining to beguile 
Your grief by lissome leaps and freest pranc- 
ing, 

At length betrays the heart-ache in his smile. 
The sway of tears, in rhythm of his dancing. 

Oh, heart of me, why struggle to be jolly: 
If Folly grieves, we have no need of Folly. 



[42] 



w 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Song of the Winds 

HY chide the gale 1 — We live on a hill, 
Where winds and weather darken and 
chill : 



Where puiSng scouts of the buffeting breeze 
Rustle and stir the tops of trees ; 

Where earthward and skyward resound the 

alarms 
Of outcast, frenzied, cloud-driven storms; 

Where trailing tatters of riven spray 
Dampen and dim the rifts of Day ; 

Where loud the clatter of window-pane 
'Neath the knock of our hands and the slap of 
the rain. 

We shout and we ride on the breast of the gale. 
And tied to the hoary witch-hair pale 

Of zigzag clouds that flout the earth, 

We're glad with the storm-king's scowling mirth, 

[43] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

Ais he laughs and jeers at each torn tree 
That shivers and moans, unfree, unfree. 

And we are the souls of the things of sin 
That jibber at doors and there pry in ; 

The souls are we of all things wild, 
Of all things banished and defiled. 

Out, out, we cry on the niggard earth 
That woiild beat back our biting mirth ; 

Out, out, we cry, on wood and fen 

That shelter the shrinking bodies of men; 

Out, out, we cry, on all things smug, 
On women and preachers, safe and snug. 

Your shaken beings, defend, defend ! 
Despised, forbidden, we turn and rend. 

And deep in the heart of the weird, wet wind, 
We are the prayers of those who 've sinned ; 

Unbound, bedraggled, from tree tops high 
We toss our burden of sin to the sky. 

Hark, hark, our mad demoniac joy, 

As stoutly we chant, ' ' Destroy, destroy ! ' ' 



[44] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Ships from the Sea 

THE wild winds blow, 
Ajid blown is the snow 
Over the world and me, 
For it sweeps the swale 
On a boisterous gale 
And covers the ships at sea, — 
It covers the ships at sea. 

A veil of sleet 

Has hidden the fleet 
That was sailing to thee and me. 

The soul stands still 

In the wind, in the chill. 
And lost are the ships at sea. 
And lost are the ships at sea. 

Will there come a day, 
In June, in May, 

You'll come, my ships, to me? 
Will the gale sweep by. 
From my soul, from my sky, 

And leave me free to see? 

Oh, to be free to see ! 
[45] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

In the wail of the gale, 
The cheek grows pale, 

For the storms that beat upon thee. 
Oh, to keep thee warm. 
In the chill, in the storm. 

While waiting my ships from the sea ! 

While waiting my ships from the sea. 



[46] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Mother 

IS it old you are, my Mother, 
Is it old? 
There is frost upon your hair, 
And your cheeks, they are not fair 

As the rose. 
But whenever I draw near. 
You retreat as though in fear 

You'd disclose 
What you carry in your heart 
Far beneath the tender art 
Of your smile, or joy or smart. 
Is it old you are, my Mother, 
Is it old? 

Is it old you are, my Mother, 

Is it old? 
Does your laughter cover grief. 
Like the color of the leaf 

In the fall? 
Is it happiness or pain 
Lilting in your gay disdain 

Of us all? 

[47] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

Be your spirit sad or free, — 
You are like a sun-lit tree 
Growing heavenward, to me. . . 
Is it old you are, my Mother, 
Is it old? 



[48] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Weary 

I LONG to feel thee smoothe away 
The frowns which here at close of day 
Have seamed all my heart. 
I long that thou shouldst breathe a word 
Tenderer far than aught yet heard, 
My listless ear to start. 

I'd ask of thee to pause and wake 
This weary woman, for thy sake 

To harken, burn, and be. 
I 'd have thee woo with all thyself, — 
I cannot wake for dregs or pelf 

And give a living me. 



[49] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Afterwards 

DO you believe dreams vanish in the night 
And leave no trace ? Miasmic is our sleep ? 
That, during night, the timid soul takes flight, 
Deserts the bodj' into chaos deep? 

Or do you deem the darkness but a fold 

Of needed lethal horror to a cheek 

That soon will start and glow to pulse more bold, 

And flush and square and never more be meek ? 

What though some chant emergence from the 

mire 
Of tyranny with song a-foul with hate ; 
That many would by blood and bomb and fire 
Destroy what is, — lo, mockery of fate ! 

I still believe these be wherefrom are born 
The staying ardours of a saner morn. 



[so] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



L'Art Absorbe 

A BROWN thrush pierced the heart of a star 
From a quiver of song. 
The brown thrush sang where the shadows are, 
Each waiting hour, the whole night long. 

I faintly followed the crystal dart 

In its luminous flight; 
I breathed a note, I lacked the art; 
My lips were old and dry with blight, — 

Blight of weariness, blight of fear, 

Blight of kissing, blight of tear ; 

And yet, I know, you, brown thrush, there, 

Awake from the chill of night to dare 

A song of faith to a far, cold star. . , 

I don't understand, but I know that you a/re. 



[51] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Wounded 

REMEMBER?— No, the day was murk. 
He reckoned — a shell or hellish dirk. 
Or was it retreat, — or another crop 
Of bloody Boches, as they swept the top ? 
''Water, — here's water!" Who was it said? 
A voice that drifted along his bed. — 
Water — drifting — an aching sea 
That surged and beat toward home, maybe. 

A vision of tiger lilies red 

Haunted and stirred his fevered head ; 

Lilies midst dunes and marsh grass pale, 

Running before a scudding gale 

From a darkling sea a-fret with foam, — 

Dunes and ocean and wind of home. . . . 

If only his bunkie would bring a light 

And tuck his blanket warm and tight. . . . 

'Twas such a gale as blew that day 
He blithely led Her far away 
Along the shore. He kissed Her there, — 
Their first, — her lips, and then her hair. 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

Such pretty, wilful hair she had, 
His girl. — He was a lucky lad, . . . 
He held her close. And a glad shout. 
The wind ! — And lilies bloomed about. 

Yes, lilies, — lilies red, 

Torches flaming for the dead, , . . 

Water? Nay, — give Her to him, 

Her warm self, nor ever dim 

His day. — A draught of her sweet breath, 

And even death — were life, e 'en death. . . . 

Her breast, his boat, he'd rest and rise 

Beneath the sweetness of her eyes. 

Virgin clean — yes, — and clear, 

Would grow his soul. . . . Who spoke? — Nay, 

hear: 
"Want — nothing, — not even a prayer. . . . 
Look, — her face, — right here I wear 
On my heart. . . , She 's safely charted me 
For an,y crossing, or any sea, , . . 
Oh, no, — I'm not afraid to die. . . . 
She's here, beside. — God too. . . . 

Goodbye. ..." 



[53] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Goodbye After Furlough 

THIS hour I give, 
This hour of pain, gay pain. 
To laughter and to you. . . . 
Come, let us laugh again ! 

Let me look deep 

Within your eyes. 

For I would keep 

Them shining in my soul, 

The matchless goal, 

Beyond surprise of fate ; 

For soon or late. 

They shall arise 

Against my darker fears. . , . 

What, — tears in your eyes, tears! 

But hark • — 

From you, the melting cloud that floats nearby, 

The drops that drip and echo in the tone 

Of laughter mounting gaily in goodbye, 

Are like a rainbow o'er my gray heart thrown. 



[54] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

And know ■ — 

Beyond that bourne of hate some shall return 

To sip the cooling draught for which they 

yearn. 
And some — my God ! — and some — • 
They will not hear you when you come 
And blindly trip — trip — trip 
Upon the silent dead, who '11 never know 
You, as you weep and go. . . . 

Come, let us laugh again! 

We have need to deaden pain, • — 

For all the rainbows reaching over France 

Are crimson through their whole expanse. 

This hour I give, 

This hour of pain, gay pain, 

To laughter and to you. . . . 

Come, let us laugh again ! 



[55] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



A Prayer 

1DARE not pray, God, do this or that 
As I may wish; I dare not hope surcease. 
Why should numb doubt of His wise Provi- 
dence, 
His ways which countless years have crowned 

as just, 
Enthrall my hope or make me even less 
Than now I am? For I, e'en I, but work 
To further all the march in things; to lay 
M}^ touch upon the mighty wheel, the world. 
And help, my mite, its roll from out that past, — 
Which alien mire is not, although beneath 
The high, star-studded still unalien ways 
The wheel must reach ere rests the Master Mind 
Which thought, and in that thought, conceived 

the whole. 
How can I say to Him or this or that 
I pray Thee give? I, who see seven stars, 
Where 'fore Him heave the breasts of endless 

worlds ? 
I suffer? Yes. And wherefore not? For have 
Not I, perhaps, — though knowing not, — be- 
trayed 

[56] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

His gracious plan, from which I sprang in joy? 
And though He promise me that what I seek, 
If I believe, is mine, what may I dare 
To ask save strength to live, and still more 

strength 
To say, "Thy plan is just, Lord;" and I 
Do pray that I may still be man enough 
To know the fault be mine and take my pay; 
And bless Him still for all transcendent joys 
That shall accrue to man through His just plan 
Of death in life or life from death fresh born. 
And so, for strength to suffer and forget 
That I may do, I pray ; may thrust aside 
The coward's part and smile above the pain; 
That I may see my spirit wing its yvay 
Unworn, unstained by weary plaint or fret. 
Straight to the God who called it forth and 

bade 
It sing and fly straight out; and though blood- 
dyed 
In flush of one day 's finished course, may trust, 
Not ask tomorrow 's golden sun ; and think 
God knows His own ways best with me and all. 
And so for strength, not bliss my eyes might 

seek, 
I pray. ... I still would dare 
Co-operate with God, — and thus my prayer. 
[57] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



With the Dawn 

WHEN day, ordained, mute darkness dis- 
sipates, 
There is a Something here which animates 
The pulsing bosom and the conscious brain 
That through long slumber, dull, inert, have 

lain. . . . 
I know, because this dawn its hold was slight; 
It had been questing elsewhere through the 
night. 

My dreams but reflex of my stumbling course. 
Heavy, unsouled, I'd deeply slept, perforce. 
While distant winged my Life, the thing called 

Soul. 
I sensed its slow return. At last I felt its whole 
Yet gradual seizure of my limbs and thought. 
Till I could meet the day-time as I ought. 

Could I but substitute thine eyes for mine, 
My Life, my Soul ! Oh, wherefore, the Divine 
Be bent to dust, and blinded, ordered days? 

[58] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

What didst thou see? What just and fine 

amaze 
Of wisdom, beauty, joy and saner power. 
That even my poor self thou canst endower 
With waiting hope and faith enough to be 
A proffered, eager tool, my Soul, to thee? 

Eager, yet self-betrayed. Distraught, inept 

From buffettings, sorrows unwisely wept. 

Imperfect, I ; a veil upon my eyes ; 

Halting, I miss thy paradisal skies; 

I can but nerveless note thy sure return. 

Yet with the morning do I wishful burn 

But once to find my being animate 

With thee, with thee on wing, made wise; my 

fate 
Thy dictate ; I, all glad, illuminate and free. 
To find the crucible would fuse my dross with 

thee! 

Yet, from the record of the dawn I may take 

heart. 
Live on: I know thou dost return; I know thou 

art. 



[59] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



L 



Little Old Man 

ITTLE old man of our town, 
Where are you going, little old man? 



You totter and halt and nod and smile, 
A faltering figure from days most strange. 
The filming veil in your gentle eyes 
Scarce covers the heaven just beneath 
From which your quaint untroubled soul 
Looks through. Your rent and rusty coat 
Is lightly worn, as though the winds 
Of earth had ceased to blow for you; 
As though your wistful dream sufficed 
For warmth and cheer and even love. 

Are there no fingers, then, to mend 
Your coat? Have all at length sped on, 
Wife, children, old-time friends. 
And left you here to smile upon 
The restless dallier in the streets? 
A single song, you are, old man, 
A single, trenchant, bell-clear song 

[60] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

That calls above the clang and roar ; 
And all the world must pause to hear 
A singing freed from dissonance. 

You reach the troubled heart of him, 
Who notes, world-hurt, your passing form, 
And longs, the once, to glimpse the heights 
You have attained. Ah, pass again ! 
Restore again the memory 
That hurts and heals ; and I shall go 
Singing my way beside you, strong 
In hope. Figure faint and old. 
Blessing the wasters with your smile, 
How swiftly now you slip from sight. . . 

Little old man of our town, 

Where are you going, little old man? 



[6i] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



A Japanese Garden 

BEAUTY, as of slumber, 
Odorous, brooding, 
Deep between two hills. 
Sultry with shade. . . . 
Fringed lids of iris move. 
Stirred by dreams. 
Their lips shape voiceless words 
For invisible ears. 
Tasseled braken breathe, listlessly, 
Up the hill sides, 
Seeking air. . . , 
Pathways lurch, drunkenly. 
Beside quaint rocks, moss-spread. 
That sleep, — long have they slept, — 
And skirt silken shrubs 
That crowd and whisper. 
Though no breeze blows .... 
Stone seats, tomb-white, 
Do not invite repose. 
But repel, consciously. . . . 
Rustic bridges reproach encroaching steps. 

[62] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

An open tea house, with mats and couch, 

Holds but not contains — Personality. 

And 3'onder, Avhere an elfin mite poises, 

Jestingly arrested, full-wing in flight. 

And turned to stone, 

Its pitiful smile straining for life, 

Lurks Fear, 

Which steals upward, restively, 

And touches the tangled branches of the oak 

Above my head and drooping. 

I crouch, recede, 

Resisting unseen touches. 

To where the path leads out and upward. 

Resistlessly, I look back. . . . 

A Somewhat pushes me upon the heart and 

laughs. 
Its exquisite fingers hold me. . . . 
I dare not look away from the creeping 

stream, ■ — 
Sounding in the bosomed garden 
Like the last gurgle of life, — 
Or its fringe of passive iris ; 
From spell-bound Things in leaf-lapped Green; 
From mocking bridges, swayed by soundless 

feet; 
From cavernous lanterns 
With their socketless eyes; 
[63] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

Or the tea house, 

With roof that curls upward, 

Like a scornful lip. 

Too indolent or too malevolent to speak ; 

From the too tangible Feeling that nears me, 

If I stir or pause, 

Or the too cloying smells that drug and 

cling. . . . 
I suffocate .... Grow cold. ... 
I cry out sharply, close my eyes, run, — 
Pursued, half way, along my course. . . . 

Here, where day-winds blow. 
Here, in this tinted orchard, 
Where petals rain, reassuringly, 
I cannot see the garden. . . . 
But in my own breast 
Dwells — Fear. 

II. 

But yesterday, I did interrogate 
The flowers, — too odorous, alert, and still, — 
And the dread garden and the couchant hill ; 
But yesterday, when afternoon was late. 
Today, I know the place fore-warned that he 
Who wrought the joy that all but lived and 
smiled 

[64] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

Would pass ; would be but brief beguiled 

With gardens and with clay, with roof and tree. 

I deem he ever knew he'd ne'er complete 
The iris row, the tea house, or the bridge. 
I deem he ever looked beyond the ridge 
To plans perfected with a skill thrice fleet. 

And out beyond the ridge we'd follow him. 
We'd rise from garden and from things begun 
In shade; tear-blind and numb, we'd find the 

sun 
He found above the perfect iris at Day's rim. 



[65] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



To Roswell Dosch 

WITHIN the vestibule of joy he sang 
The unstained promise of his soul, 
Of earth reborn, reconsecrate and free, 
All beautiful. — And doth there toll. 

Aloft, a bell, ere opened be the door? 

The joyous singer, where is he? 
The temple 's fraught with night and echoes shrill. 

Where he and his clear voice should be. 

And did the skies, all envious, dispatch 
The wind to bear him far away? 

Oh, was it not his own glad splendid song 
That speeded him — to utter Day. 



[66] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Individualism 

Boats on a wide green sea, 

Hope-winged, wind-driven. 

Thinking themselves free. 

Bound to sail a straight course 

Or to tack carefully, 

Passengers dodging the swinging boom. 

Green sea, grinning white, 

Mouth spitting ironic foam. 

Jealous sea, • — 

Jealous of passengers and ships. 

Pursuing, lashing, lying in wait. 

Passengers laughing, 

Caressing each other. 

Boasting glad passions and their sway. 

Boasting brawn, agility, deep breath, belief. 

Seeing only themselves and each other. 

Feeling the sting and clap-clangor of wind and 

sails. 
Exulting, exulting, exulting. 
Boats and passengers, in high glee, 
Running with the wind and with the sea. 

[67] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

Believing to wish is to receive. 

Wishing the storm away. 

Wishing on the first dizzy star, 

Wrapt in each other's futile arms, 

Deaf to howl of hurricane and destiny's 

alarms. 
Star-gazers, self-lovers, drunk with joy. 
Hail the free ship of life ! Ahoy, ahoy ! 
Boats on a wide green sea, 
Hope-winged, wind-driven. 
Thinking themselves free. 

No other speeding sail has heard the cries. 
Or long, last shriek that cuts the alien air. 
Then dies, — dies. . . . 

* * * * 

White-darting, careening, passion-bosomed. 

Passenger laden. 

Sailing alone, apart, — 

Oh, not in fleets, never in fleets, 

Boats, boats, boats. . . . 



[68] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Waiting 

FOR me are faint the lighting skies 
And the new carollings of birds. 
I lie, prisoner of sleep. 
Today, as other days and days, 
My dawn comes slow. . , 
Though rides the sun, too probably, half high, 

my soul 
Wants energy. Something I wait. . . 
Adventure 's kiss, 
A thought, more bold, 
A song that only sings, 
A hope that holds, 
A body not so spent with reaching. 

It is those slip-in ghosts. 
Remembrances that do accuse, 
That draw my curtains 'gainst the dawn. 
I would — 

Be rested and hear the promised paean of free 
bells. 



[69] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

Some glad, near, early morning, 

When sound those bells, 

May I not too sleep-bound be 

To throw my darkened windows wide. 



[70] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



The Coast Speaks 

I AM fell trapped within my body's snare. 
I would escape and ride the cool swift air 
As light as sun-kissed, breathing, ungirt foam 
That leaves the sea, and spirit-wide, doth roam, 
A cloud, made free from salt tears of the sea 
And earth's boun 'dries, and all things bleak that 

be. 
The passion of my waves I would defy. 
And all my hidden shoals and rocks that lie 
In wait for men ; 'tis never my desire 
To wreck the mariner, whose soul's on fire 
With courage and with great adventure's lure; 
Had I my way, I'd lead him to endure 
His course, unto his home-won, glorious day; 
Applaud his brave defiance of delay. 
I 'd see his sparkling sails blow full with faith. 
There should not stalk his decks the sullen wraith 
Of mine OAvn weeping, unassuaged despair. 
Alas, so many the gray lone days of care ; 
So few of sun. I may not be all fair. 
'Tis not my destiny. Recumbent, bare, 



[71] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

Sobbing yet weighted with its restless mate, 
My breast succumbs, the sated slave of fate. 

* * # * 

But yesterday, I saw a perfect star. 
Crannied and white, where never flowers are. 
Tomorrow, when my heart beats tempest-high, 
I '11 touch that tiny God-thing from the sky. 



[72] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



TTie Fantasy of Life 

OH, I would chant the fantasy of life, 
Eternal rondo. 
With hedonist 1 'envoi 
And return. . . . 
No more. ... 
My life and yours, my brother. 

I'd chant 

The impish, ivory laughter 

Of insensate gods of hope; 

The prayers of wax, bay candles. 

Bespeaking joys for which we yearn 

And burn. 

Dwindling ; 

The fat-bellied green idols 

To whom our incense leaps or creeps, — 

Incense that drugs our souls. 

I'd chant 

The pulsing touch of hand to hand, 

The two-fold bitter ennui 

[73] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

When lovers part; 

The disillusionment of friend with friend; 

The smiling, flesh-rending teeth 

Of men who chaff and greet 

Each other in the mart; 

The towering, gold-bedizened minarets 

That shout to unbending skies, — 

Cruel, triumphant shouts, — 

The shimmering defiance of man 

"Whose love of pelf 

And of his puny self 

Builds cities 

And great towers 

And ships carrying grain and guns; 

Of man who wins 

And man who loses all. 

Yea, bold and bare records, 

Without joy. 

These minarets, 

Of those who, — weird paradox, — 

Sought liberty, life and happiness for self, 

Then wrought, • — 

Nine hundred lives to one, — 

This massive magic for another, — 

For one who tireless mounts 

Upon befooled and squirming victims 

Of his will. 

[74] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

Oh, I would chant 

The delicate "perfumes of Araby," 

With which to whiten weakened, self-stained 

hands ; 
I 'd chant the glowing, wishful soul of youth 
In bodies "taken in sin," — 
Pure beauty with a film of dust ; 
And yet again, 
The old, old sinful soul 
In others who stand brimming-still 
And jeer upon the sinning : 
Dust, — 
Pufie - f - ! 
No beauty underneath. 

I'd chant 

The tinny toys of art 

And all the gaping devotees 

Who grab the toys. 

Who smirk and talk 

And crowd the drawing rooms 

Up to the very seats of — 

Diamonds and furs and softest silks, 

And white shoulders 

And long, bare backs. 

Up to the very seats of these 

That masquerade as patrons of the arts. 

[75] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

And I would chant 

The whirling wheels in shops, 

And empty toilers at the looms 

Whose hrains whirl, too. 

Who drunkenly forget 

Birth rights. 

And lose themselves in revelry by night ; 

And yet, again, 

The Bureaus with bright signs, 

The sounding talk of "social service,"' — 

And ever, unconfessed. 

The wide-eyed, hidden thought 

Of individual prestige. 

I'd chant 

Opportunists 

And charlatans 

And children 

And strong men who die just when they see ,- 

These are the puppets of our rondo world: 

Men and men's women 

Consuming women and men; 

Their children flaunting 

Febrile wit and sumptuous whim; 

Strong men weeping in their hearts; 

All caught and carried 

In the crushing whirl 

[76] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

Of life that is not life, 

But only strife 

And vain, ridiculous attempt 

To blow pretty bubbles, 

To lift high the glittering glass, 

To kill, 

And fatten 

And stagnate 

And suffer 

And grow stale. 

Verily, I'd chant 
Human nature's smothered soul. 
Self-deceived. ... 
Hark, the loud, rocking laughter! 
Look! 

God's face withdrawn, 
Heaven lowering. . . . 
On, on, the jigging world, 
In flight fantastic. 

Blind to control within unbounded space. 
Eternity's smitten, sardonic and most sad dis- 
grace ! 

Yet, ah yet, 

I'd chant the world, pitiable, 

Perblind, 

[77] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

Denied ; 

Though dumb and lost, 

Out-crying still for light 

To scatter gray-beard mist and night, — 

E'en though it cry in noxious breathings 

Of gilded shut-in rooms 

Where purple curtains, faint with perfume 

Soft as spirit touch 

Caress and kindle and smother 

Beauty and youth, 

In love with life 's drugs ; 

E'en though it cry 

In breathings, body-stained. 

That mount to some great God-unknown, 

In impish, ivory laughter 

Of insensate gods of hope; 

In prayers of wax, bay candles 

Bespeaking joys for which we yearn 

And burn. 

Dwindling ; 

In trailing blue incense 

Before fat-bellied idols. ■ — 

This is nor diatribe 

Nor satirist-superior complaint; 

This is a sacramental chant. . . . 



[78] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Soul's Pilgrimage 

(^ ENTURIES it is 
J Since first I came 
Into the corridor called Life. 

Initially, 'twas evening-clad I came, 
My raiment dark, billowing, 
Like somnambulist arms 
Far spread for balance. 

mankind, my brothers. 
Ye welcomed me, 

As ye welcome night 
That hovers crimes. 

When clad in clouding gray 

1 did return, 

I still had place, — 

Ye noted and complied. 

And then, at length, 

Adown the far dim years 

Somewhere I met a smile, love-honoring. 

And from some peak of glory 

Deemed God kissed and bade me 

[79] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

Fly clean as sunlight to the world, 
Palms downward. 

My soul faintly recalls that flight 

And chill reception in the corridor. 

Among you, but obscure, alone, I wandered, 

Seeking other souls 

And somewhat of the light I'd lost. 

The more wistful, I, 

The more ye turned away 

And taunted me with smiles. 

My garments of brave June 

Ye tore, in disregard. 

Me ye denied, stripping from me, 

Fold by fold, my fine-spun covering, 

Until naked I stood. 

Trembling and despised, 

Myself not knowing. 

And soon I did forget 

That I had ever been that soul 

Which erstwhile thrust its flight 

Across the morning sky. 

But while I stood despised. 
Unclad and quivering, 
Sudden a beam of light 
Pierced the shadows. 

[80] 



PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

Aloud I cried, ''Look!" 

But none there, — so it did seem, — 

Cared. . . 

Then, wondering, I for the first time beheld 

Your eyes. 

Nor further marvelled, 

my brothers. 
That ye turned away. 

No longer fearful, 

1 did set myself the task 
To catch that sunbeam. 
By single act of mine, 
And refract God, 

Your vision to compel. 

Alas, at once was gone the light, 
Snuffed out by mine own clumsiness. 
And I, stricken. 
Did know myself — presumptuous. 

So long the road. 

So varying and confused. 

By which a soul may find itself 

And know itself a soul. . . 



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PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

God's task, not mine, 

This corridor called Life. 

My head I bowed, acknowledging. 

My hand I raised, in token and acclaim. 

Eyes lifted to the clearstory light. 

Ah then, ah then, I saw 

My hand curved round the exquisite stem 

Of a goblet rare as — 

A slender lily holding dew at dawn. 

Within the goblet I beheld — 

Liquid sunlight with moonlight filtering in, 

Rainbow rimmed. . . . 

"See, see," I cried, 

"The gift, I've found the gift,— 

I bear it high. 

The Gift of God." 

Some shrugged and passed. 

Some looked and laughed. 

But one there was who eagerly did cry, 

"Where, where?" 

To him I made reply: 

"Look, look, 'tis thine as mine. 

Stretch forth thine hand. 

And thou too shalt receive." 

"I will not raise my hand," he said, 

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PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

Then gazed full long and dull 

Upon the place where glowed 

The goblet. . . 

"Nothing hast thou there," he said, 

Scorning me. 

Nor waited to hear more. 

And now I go, onward, 

All the strange days, 

Bearing my amber-torchan cup aloft, 

Far from my lips, . . 

If only unathirst remain my lips. 

The little light that is my portion. 

Which I hold high within my hand. 

May one day draw my soul 

To its own height. 

Oh, God forefend that some unblushing noon, 

When I look upward, 

I should find — 

My straining fingers clasping colorless air. 



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Process 

WHAT say the features of a face' 
Greed and guile? 
Be they the record of disgrace 
Of souls on trial? 

Ah no, I deem they be the cry 

Of nature, blind 
And groping 'neath the darkened sky 

Of human kind. 

Not ugliness the twisted lip, 

But effort old 
Upon a bitter cup to sip 

Grown fixed and cold. 

And far beneath the bestial stare 

Of weakened eyes, 
The too great shadow of despair 

Where courage dies. 

Ah, pitiful the measure and all fine 

Wherewith we live; 
And He who formed us doth benign 

Regret, forgive. , 

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PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 



Recalled 

SUNLIGHT, jeweling through blue 
Like sapphires on a woman's breast; 
Blue of blue waving flags, in young grass, 
That greet June days; 
Blue of trailing rainbows. 
The world's dome, 
And Someone's eyes. 

Blue of carpet, curtain, chair, 

Blue, free bits. 

Cool ecstasies 

Over parched earth. 

Anon, meshed orange films like prisoned flame 

From famed print or glazed bowl. 

Incense, with faint aspiration, 

Is finely interfused, — 

Sea-fog drifting through hushed firs, 

Through my soul 's reaching corridors. 

I was bowed and grieving in my heart 
From dust of loneliness 

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PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

And for shattered things 

I had deemed mine, yet lost. 

At length, then, I return to thee, 

My singular roof and dwelling. 

The blue of thy faithfulness 

And thy filmed gold 

Irradiate the dust of loneliness. 

Thee I shall love. 

None wants my love elsewhere. 

My singular roof -world, 

Bound, yet cool and free, 

Earth and air and tempered light containing, 

Thou art the hurting thrill and sadness 

Of a joy that's healed. . . 

Paradise and thrall. 

Escape and cloister, 

A vision and a prayer. , . . 



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Recessional 

UPON my kindling eyes 
I bound a thought, 
Age-old, hard-won. 
So close my fingers clung upon it, 
Numb were they. 
Compelled, 

My eyes drooped and hung upon 
Tricky traceries wherein appeared 
Similitudes or wrj^ logic. 



But yestereve, I sudden heard 
The singing of a fire-eyed bird. 
And then the fragile piping note 
Of fleeting flute, withdrawn, remote. 

And near the stream, a ruby gleam 
Of a god, a-piping, passed like dream. 
While cool and deep in the green of the dell 
Brimmed and flowed a fathomless well 

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PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

Of rainbow laughter, alluring me, 
That fled, ah whither, I fain would see ; 
Fled like the exquisite glimmer of truth 
From the quest and vision and soul of youth. 

Why not quaff of the fathomless well 

That gurgles and glees in the heart of the dell? 

Why not follow the glad gay beams 

Of beauty born at the call of dreams? 

Why, oh why, when once ye have heard 
The nesting note of the fire-eyed bird 
That thrills at your door, do ye turn away. 
And bury your faith as ye bury your play ? 

The fire-eyed bird and the slender reed 
Of shy good Pan are sped indeed : 
Dreams and ghosts have fear of day; 
Summer forswears the buds of May. 



Why grieve for Pan, whose music haunts the 

glen. 
Withdrawing at approach ? Let go. For know : 
Thy feet must tread the wonted ways of men, 
And hands touch hands that eager come and go. 



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PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 

Oh, rather be companion to those feet, 
Or but a hand to stay a faltering hand, 
Or eye to kindle eye in glance most fleet. 
Or heart unbound to heart of all that band 

Than tear-stained poet of a dim rebound. 

Where solitude is plaintive with delight 

Of long gone days, quaint color and strange 

sound 
That first allure and then defeat the sight. 

For all thy wish, thou canst not turn aside 
For unreal flutes and all that vanished art ; 
And thine unsought reward, it may betide, 
A-throb within thy gift, some grateful heart. 



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